Undiscovered Poetry!
Stored in the future, not yet born,
Are poems still to write,
To grant hope to the hearts forlorn
That seek some new insight.
And none can force themes to exist
Until Fate takes a hand,
Be patient, yes, but still persist
For time to understand...
That mind of yours is something else,
Computing all the while,
So listen out for warning bells,
Then start your stanza style.
Some phrase will trigger in your mind!
You must know what I mean!
A phrase that makes you so inclined
That now you're really keen...
That pen and paper idling there,
Have purpose just like you!
For suddenly you're made aware
Exactly what to do!
The undiscovered poetry
Has chosen you once more,
With either joy or urgency
It hopes you won't ignore!
The revelation reaches out!
It wraps around your brain!
It cuddles close so there's no doubt!
Who knows what you will gain?
It could be solemn, mystical,
Prophetic or profound...
It could be quite adorable,
In fact, it might astound!
The rhymes may bounce across the page
Like drunken kangeroos!
Or settle down at centre stage
With formal points of views!
Who knows? You could get published soon
In some anthology!
If so, I guess it's time to swoon,
You've better luck than me!
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
On the tip of your tongue.
You know, you know but can't explain
Just how or why you came to gain.
The facts stored in your memory.
Odd facts stored subconsciously.
For no good reason seemingly.
Stored away haphazardly.
Though ev'ry fact our mind has stored.
It had some reason to record.
A nugget added to the hoard.
A vast accumulation
Of useless information.
We very seldom call upon.
But when we do it's sad but true
We find that we cannot renew.
The direct link that leads us to.
The word or phrase we want to find.
Amongst those hidden in our mind.
The system is not well designed.
We can't recover what we've stored.
Our efforts totally ignored.
Our mind decides it can't afford.
To grant unlimited access.
Although it leaves us free to guess. The reason for such stubbornness.Thursday,12 April 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sound Familiar? for Bill Smith
I dreamt I wrote but I had not.
My pad was empty when I woke,
the poem was gone. I had forgot
but in my head a small voice spoke.
Don’t try so hard you won’t succeed
though it’s recorded in your mind.
It will return at its own speed.
There is no way that you can find.
The key with which you gain access.
It simply doesn’t work that way.
You brain needs some time to process
The information stored awa.
I got on with my daily chores
switched my mind to here and now
I knew this was the only course
that my sub conscious would allow.
My chores all done a coffee break
seemed like a good idea to me.
I sat relaxed just half awake.
The floodgates opened suddenly.
My pad and pen were close to hand
I always keep them close to me.
A habit you will understand
if you too write some poetry.
The words flowed freely from my pen
I did not need to think, just write.
I had recalled the words again
and writ them down in black and white.
It doesn’t always work that way
some poems are lost beyond recall.
Never to see the light of day.
I’m glad to say that’s some not all.
6-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems I've Considered Writing..All Thanks to You..
It seems I'm writing more
Than I have for quite some time..
It's not always good writing
Sometimes It's just a matter of getting out my emotions on paper
Though they say you shouldn't put everything on paper
But,
That wouldn't make me much of a writer then, would it..
I don't do it on purpose..
To be honest,
I can't really help it..
And,
When I contemplate some of the poems I've thought of writing
Since our acquaintance
Well,
Some of the following titles spring to mind..
'This should be interesting'
'I wonder how I'll ever get on in this place'
'I hope I make a good enough impression'
But, then, that's not specific to you, is it..
I'm always worried about making a good impression, doing a good job, working on bettering me...worried about what others may or may not think
I'm not in competition with anyone but myself and sometimes I think that's
Tougher than competing with someone else..
'Ummmm...I don't know what to think'
'Someone thinks highly of themselves'
This would have been about you by the way..
I guess first impressions aren't always accurate
'I think I can trust you'
'Maybe I've made a friend'
'Why did that feel like a date'
'What's wrong with me'
'Something to look forward to'
'Saying Goodbye'
'Hello Again'
'I like having you as my friend'
'Someone to talk to'
'That's...Not..What..! ! ! '
Because sometimes I feel like I can read your mind..
And,
It's not always on it's best behavior, is it..
I hope that doesn't change... it makes me smile.
'I Have to Admit, You're Kind-a Sweet'
'Nooooo! ! ! '
This would have been a funny poem..As would,
'Do you mean what you say, when you say what you say'
But, then.. I think..
'Maybe it's all in my head'
Let's face it.. I am known to think too much, too often, all the time...
It's a minor glitch with my mind...
Then, there was the minor incident where..
'Being Forced to Face That I'm Feeling....Something'
But, that's just hard for me to do..so,
'Bury it, Pretend it Doesn't Exist'
Or
'We Aren't Going to Talk About the Elephant in the Room'
Were poems that were quite appropriate to write..
I didn't write them..
Well, not quite that way..
Some others would have been,
'Uneasy with My Feelings'
'I Wonder What You Really Think of Me'
'Too Bad I Can't Read Minds'
'I'd love to know what your first impression of me was...does it still hold true'
I don't know if you have read my work..
I sometimes think it's you..
But, I figure there's no way for me to know
Unless you give me a clue..
And, maybe you have
But, subtleties are lost on me
Especially when it comes to you..
So I write..
Or contemplate writing poems..
With funny titles
Titles that don't always mean what they say
Or say how I feel
Or are specific to you...
Because writers write..
It's what they do
But, sometimes
My Poems
Might be
Just for you...
poem by Rabia Minhas
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry?
what is poetry
a bunch rhymes
or just simple words on paper because you have to much time
poetry to me isnt all about rhyming
poetry to me is a way to get out emotions or things that happen in the past your to scared to say so instead you write about it. poetry can be sweet, bad, naughty, nice poetry is how your feeling poetry takes on the tone of voice your to scared to explain. poetry is that voice deep down inside that voice that takes over when your typing or writng. to me people are poetry people are the voice, people are the future, but poetry is the key that on locks us all. to stand up and use that voice that we write with when were writng poetry.
poem by Jerrell Frazier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Write In Lead Part 2
You see I write in lead
cause having poetry impact my life
Everyday is empowering
Can't complete a thought 'cause
Before I can access feelings stored inside
My mind is weaving another strand of meaning and context
'Cause Poetry's deciphered my semantic properties
Unraveling down to the morphological units
Unlacing more of me
And that I don't need a pen
To bleed thoughts of truth
Let me know cause I don't understand
Can't put into concrete thoughts
My grasp of linguistics no longer suffice
To decode the relationship between
Mind and hand
pen and poet
Carefully marking down gibberish
Only understood by the two
I guess that's how it works
Some things have no outside reason to stand
But the only one that comes from within
An I write in lead cause
I can't get out the right pattern of words
I keep erasing
Always in search of a better way
To state how it is that I
am processing poetry
I don't want to use pen
cause fact of the matter is poetry
Shakes the profound core
My factory of thoughts
Engraved permanently in paper
Leaves no space to illustrate
How poetry pushes me to the edge of language
And then I realize
The edge is more like an extending bridge of vocabulary
I can continue building letters
Making meaning
There's no saying
Where interpretation will stop
That is what
poetry is
Making my hand ache
but the thought of not scribing
Leaves less space
For our bridge to extend
Connect To find a better way
to spill my insides out
Poetry's my speech therapy
Cause the more I interpret poetry's word
the more I record how its being comes forth
tough and registers in a soft key
Through syllables
The more clearly I see
through the lens I read
The world and my synthesis
is me
I want to take all of poetry in
So it lives endlessly in meaning
If the path of our voices crosses only momentarily
I'd like for poetry to still live through my expression
Aiding the love affair of
Mind hand and heart
poem by Samantha Campbell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet
Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...
and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;
or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…
write as if it were only yesterday
that, in an air crash, all your family –
parents, wife or husband, partner, children, and best friend,
had lost their lives; write as if,
were you not to write,
your heart would break forever, or you would go mad...
write as if you’re writing somewhere
where there’s no such thing around, as ink;
you’ll have to use your own blood in the pen,
so use it carefully; so red, so living,
look at it… so beautiful, so precious,
and so solemn – use it carefully, don’t spill a drop…
write as if you’re borrowing every word
from the very centre of the universe, where suns and gods are made;
and need thus to account for every word
with your whole life, no less; know that every word
must be given back, cleaner, stronger, brighter
with your own power, than when you borrowed it;
write as if every poet that ever lived
is leaning over your shoulder, so that you
can feel their breath upon your neck as they say
‘Tell them all that we would tell,
but cannot now; tell them all of this’…
this, now, is how you must deeply be and speak;
write as if you are the only being on earth
who can tell them this; as if tomorrow, if tomorrow comes,
you shall visit them every one, at home,
and look them in the eye; write as if
you love them more than they will ever know;
write as if you were offering to live their lives with them;
write as if you were a force of nature in yourself:
as if whatever earthquake, hurricane or flood might do,
whatever law or love may greatly do,
whatever gods or men can speak, in fullest force,
this you may do, because the sound of poetry is such;
yes, write ‘as if’ – but know you really write ‘because’…
write as if – no, write because –
you know that only poetry can tell
all, that must be told, and must be known;
and as all hearts melt in the heat of your own love,
be in no doubt – and see that all are in no doubt too –
that life was never, never more serious,
never more glorious, than it is right now;
write all this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drunk On Poetry
Poetry surges steadily
Through my veins
I grant it to stream through them
Day in and day out
Sleep and awake
I believe it's a healthy obsession
I get drunk on it
The more I inject in me
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become addicted
Sometimes I absorb too much poetry
Reading, writing and listening
I become drunk sometimes
Poetry spills from my pen
Inking a piece of paper
And unto another and another
Constantly on every thought
Humorous, emotionally, romantic, tragic
Experiencing in life
Opinionated, factual, abstract
Political, any subject that's on my thoughts
Sometimes I become drunk
The more i inject into me
Poetry I live for
Eat, drink, sleep
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
I loose myself sometimes
When I digest too much
Poems that I write
I write for me
I share them with the world
I can't resist this urge
Poetry is what I crave
It happens to be my mistress
I become drunk
The more I inject
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become so addicted
Breathing in too much poetry
Reading, writing, listening
I'm drunk sometimes
Poetry I write
Write from experience
What I've done
What I've heard
What I've seen
What I've felt
What I've known
Poetry I live for
Eating, drinking, sleeping
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
On my thoughts poetry
Loosing myself sometimes
When I inject enough
This is what I've become
A drunken poet
poem by R.K. Cowles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry
Poetry.......
Poetry defines me
Poetry.......
A place where you be you and I'll be me.
Poetry.......
We are best friends for eternity.
My Poetry.......
Is the daughter of my emotion,
There I've said it, no need to interpret the connection.
Poetry.......
Where my pen and paper are sealed with a kiss,
So easy to write for my mind is a bliss.
Poetry.......
Poetry has multiple meanings,
An indescribable feeling when I realize others understand them.
My Poetry.......
It just comes natural to me.
My Poetry.......
Is out there, , , , , away from exile,
And style of writing is very versatile.
Poetry.......Poetry.......
P oetry.......
It speaks out to me.
poem by Anita Khelawan
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Poet's Rant
Each page, A blank canvas
The pen, The linking brush
My hand and arm, The creators
My mind, The imaginative dreamer
The issue is the bringing about of a colorful picture
Due to my chosen art my stroking motions of pen mean nothing in poetry
The story and language of my broken thoughts
Are to converge and stick to make one solitary piece
The issue is they never stay constant or stick
Always changing by the hour of thought and emotion
The thoughts of an elusive rhyme scheme never fulfilled
So I’ll try to do the best I can with increasing practice
Practice in reading a Thesaurus perhaps?
Although for now I shall try to write elegant whimsical words
That the world seems to have forgotten n’less it is heard in a work of Shakespeare
Or in a Medieval movie
Similar to a conjured phrase such as,
My aforethought words drip from a scaly desert of a tongue of whose reading can be found in the unlockable cave known to that of this poet.
Despite its attractiveness to the eyes of a skimmer or wandering reader
Some may appreciate the sentimental phrase I made
poem by Ryan Collins
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Www.poemsinthemind.com
Why is it that so often, the poems you try to write,
Only come into your mind, in the middle of the night,
Suddenly, a really wonderful, sentence comes to mind,
And then you start to mould some more, and that is when you find,
That come the morning, it has gone somewhere within your brain,
And however much you try a recall, it will never come again.
But if you get up to jot it down, it's not at all a good idea,
As once you've become wide awake, your sleep is never near.
Why can't we have a file in there, to which these 'flashes' go,
And with a www.poemsinthemind.com, we could reproduce them, so
That every time we start to think, we need not have to fear,
For then, when we get a super line, it's kept for all to hear.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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(V – 2010) To Risha Ahmed
(With Love, Admiration and Best Wishes)
Of Poetry, O Prodigy!
You pen with wit and sanity
Your vision shows maturity
Your diction forces clarity!
Of Poetry, O Prodigy!
Your rhythm rides melodiously
You rhyme with ease and quality
Your hallmark is spontaneity!
Of Poetry, O Prodigy!
Your poems voice vocal beauty
Your poems value buoyancy
Your poems come creatively!
Of Poetry, O Prodigy!
You need now learn no prosody
You embody true poetry
Your poetry is really free!
Of Poetry, O Prodigy!
Your rhymes & themes with time vary
You proceed but with modesty
Your future you can guarantee!
Of Poetry, O Prodigy!
Your age will grow your ability
Your heart will light your journey, see
Your writings light humanity!
Right Kind Of Phrase
Once there was a girl that came from not too far from here
And she wasn't satisfied at the rate that she applied herself
To the items on the shelf, she was a retail girl
And that really has to do with nothing
though she gave me something
A smile I'll rely on for a lifetime I'd try on for awhile
So now why is she getting married on the 25th of April
She believes in higher energy and better things for all the people
She is a charm of good luck when she's sitting by your side
But I think my luck run out on april twenty five
Oh love, oh love is all I'm looking for
Sitting in the corner in the dark
Hoping that she'd eye me, I'm looking right her way
But I'd never find the right thing to say
I'd never find the right kind of phrase
There was a secret somebody
Of course I never get the upper hand
Those kinds of rare finds are all born with a man
I just don't understand how they can
Oh love, oh love is all I'm looking for
Sitting in the corner in the dark and on the floor
Hoping that she'd spy on me, I'm looking right her way
I'd never find the right kind of phrase
The right kind, the right line, or the right time to say almost anything that's right
the right kind of phrase.
I'd never find the right thing to say
song performed by by Jason Mraz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Complementary viewpoints for friend Chandra
Philosophy and poetry
are not completely different.
Each represents a way to see
What is not always evident.
Philosophers and poets try
to understand the universe.
The answers which they can supply.
Expressed in turgid prose or verse.
Philosophers can be abstruse
and difficult to understand
Because of how they phrase their views.
I don’t dismiss them out of hand.
I much prefer the poets verse
To endless reams of complex prose.
I do not think I am perverse
Simplicity I must suppose.
Is really what appeals to me.
the poets seek to entertain
and yet express with clarity.
Philosophers try to explain.
Their reasoning in great detail.
They just succeed in boring me
Their efforts are to no avail
I will admit quite openly
I simply cannot spare the time
To plough through densely written prose.
But I find poetry sublime
I like the way it ebbs and flows.
The insight that a poet shows
can entertain and educate.
Philosophers try to impose
their views, discouraging debate.
Which does not sit too well with me.
Folks can’t stand being patronised
and will rebel instinctively.
A fact that poets recognise.
They are content to share their thoughts.
With anyone who chooses to
read the verses they have wrought.
Which may express a different view
To that of the philosophers.
You draw your own conclusions
and choose which version you prefer.
Perhaps your own opinions.
Philosophy and poetry
Are both legitimate attempts
To explain some mystery
By folks of different temperaments.
22/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unclear Family
Where's the nuclear family?
Do you know where it's gone?
Today it's somewhat hard to see,
Our hopes to pin upon...
With children known as 2 point 4
And Mum and Dad as well,
I know it's not a written law,
But now it's hard to tell...
Divorce increases year by year,
The parents split apart,
Each child's then left to shed a tear
That tugs at every heart...
A second marriage may begin,
More children to be born,
Then only God knows who will win
And who remains forlorn...
A certain friction fills the air,
A numbness chills each soul...
The likes of these who could compare?
Folks keeping self-control...
Such that true peace nobody seeks,
With grudges close at hand,
Then silences, nobody speaks,
As if true love were banned...
No wonder God has warned us all
Before the Wedding Day,
God only knows what will befall
When adults go astray...
They may start well and life's just great,
But sin's still here on Earth
And truly this must be Man's Fate
That each must prove their worth...
It's such a shame when things go wrong!
Such sorrows here and there!
No wonder God tells us, 'Be strong!
Be warned! You must take care! '
If only true love were the norm,
Divorces not exist...
There'd only be sweethearts kept warm
And sweet lips ever kissed!
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.
We can hear the word of the Lord on
Revelation TV on UK Sky Digital 581
as well as the WATCH NOW link on
the revelationtv-dot-com website...
Poem accepted for Forward Poetry anthology:
Cherished Moments - A Collection Of Poetry.
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Confetti In The Wind
He wrote a letter in his mind
To answer one a maid had sent;
He sought the fitting word to find,
As on by hill and rill he went.
By bluebell wood and hawthorn lane,
The cadence sweet and silken phrase
He incubated in his brain
For days and days.
He wrote his letter on a page
Of paper with a satin grain;
It did not ring, so in a rage
He tore it up and tried again.
Time after time he drafted it;
He polished it all through the night;
He tuned and pruned till bit by bit
He got it right.
He took his letter to the post,
Yet long he held it in his hand.
Strangely his mood had veered, almost
Reversed,--he could not understand.
The girl was vague, the words were vain;
April romance had come to grief . . .
He tore his letter up again,--
Oh blest relief!
poem by Robert William Service
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Can it be Memory, Inspiration, or Figment Causing This?
The poems I write are a story of my life
They are a foreseeable future, a regret filled past
In this they stain, in my poems they stain
The dreams, my ideals, life lessons, and hopes
Flood on to the page waiting to be read
Stranger they become
Stranger to be in my mind
How they come to be there
That bolt of lines that swirl and toil in my mind
They say for my allure, they sway for my attention
'Take me', they cry, 'Take me for your own'
'Release us from here, bring us to life and capture us in
your work! '
'Immortalize us in history on that page! '
They sway faster in an angry tempo
Chanting now on how to be used
Begging, pleading to be used
I grasp the pen and paper
Pull my laptop closer
I write and type as fast as my hands can go
The tempo soothes, and the swaying stops
All is quiet
All is empty
They are released, glorified on this magnificent page.
Written: January 21,2012
poem by Ryan Collins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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